‘Come back to us, Ygseril. Come back.’
Nothing. Hestillion swallowed hard, feeling an echo of that same loss and despair she had felt in the garden with Tormalin, so long ago. In desperation, she cast her awareness downwards, feeling along the complex labyrinth that was Ygseril’s roots. Down and down, into a darkness that rivalled the netherdarkness itself, until she felt lost, disconnected from herself. It was tempting to keep going, to keep pushing until whatever held her to her own body snapped, to sever that connection and stay lost in the fog forever. Better that than a slow death watching Ebora collapse into a horror of blood and empty corridors. But the truth was, she was too good at this. She had travelled further in the netherdark before, and survived, more than once.
Her heart stuttered. The tiniest blink of light had flickered on the edge of her awareness, just for a second. It had been there and gone so fast that she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined it, or if it had been an anomaly of her own vision – her brain trying to create light and colour when she had been in the darkness for so long. Without pausing to think further, Hestillion dived after it, seeking the space where it had been. The darkness pressed in around her, claustrophobic now, and she could almost feel the roots surrounding her, half unseen. Was it her imagination, or was the greyness lighter here? For a fleeting moment, it was almost as though she were standing in a dark room with someone beside her. If she reached out, without looking, she could touch them . . .
A hand curled around the top of her arm, and she was back in the Hall of Roots, her eyes wide open.
‘Aldasair! What are you doing?’
The young man was crouched on the roots next to her, his tousled hair half falling over his face. He was still wearing his night robe, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. How long had she been in the netherdark, searching?
‘You were asleep,’ he said, a shade defensively. ‘I wanted you to come and eat with me. And there’s someone here.’
‘You idiot.’ Hestillion shook his hand away. Had she simply been sensing Aldasair’s presence in the hall, or was it something else? ‘What do you mean, there’s someone here?’
‘I wanted to have rala root with my lunch, so I went outside to see if it’s still growing wild in the Red Singing Garden.’ Hestillion raised her eyebrows. This was as lucid as she’d seen Aldasair in months. ‘And I saw them, walking down the Great Street towards the palace. They were coming along very slowly, looking around at everything. They’ll get eaten by wolves if they don’t hurry up.’
Hestillion stood up, swaying slightly – she had been very deep in the netherdark when Aldasair had pulled her out of it, and the speed with which she had been drawn back was disorientating. She glanced up at the trunk of Ygseril, wondering if she’d imagined the light, but there was no time to think about it now. ‘Aldasair, do you mean there are humans in Ebora?’
Aldasair brushed his hands down the front of his night gown. It was slightly dusty. ‘That’s precisely what I mean. All the rala root is dead, by the way.’
Hestillion hurried to the front gates, smoothing her hair back behind her ears while Aldasair followed her reluctantly. She had at least put on one of her finer padded gowns this morning – deep emerald green with a turquoise pattern of spiral serpents – and although she wore no jewellery her boots were studded with lesser gems. It would do, for meeting with surprise guests. She could see them already beyond the golden gates, a ragtag group of men and women standing very close together. From the shapes of their faces and the elaborate travelling tents they carried with them they were plains people, which was in itself a surprise. Since the Carrion Wars plains people had rarely come to Ebora voluntarily. Hestillion consciously smoothed her brow and put on her most welcoming smile before slipping out through the gates; they were always left open these days.
‘Greetings!’ she called. ‘I cannot tell you how good it is to see visitors here. You must have come a long way.’
The small group were watching her with dark eyes. They wore soft deerskin leggings and heavy woollen garments that swept their shoulders with bright colours – reds, yellows, purples and greens – and hoods of horsehair circled their faces. As she watched, the men and women shuffled aside to reveal a sturdy wooden litter with a heavily padded seat at the centre. In it was a tiny, ancient woman, mostly concealed by blankets and her own horsehair hood. One long-fingered hand, leathery with exposure to weather, gripped the arm of the seat.
‘You are in charge here, girl?’ The woman’s voice was cracked with age, but firm.
Hestillion came forward, her own hands folded into her sleeves against the cold. ‘I suppose you could say that I am. Please, let me take you all inside. Whatever hospitality we have left will be yours.’
The figure in the litter raised her hand, beckoning.
‘Let me have a look at you first. Been years since I’ve seen a real, live Eboran.’
Hestillion came forward slowly. She did not look at the men and women who stood with the litter, but she could feel the distrust radiating from them. As she drew closer, the old woman leaned forward, pushing her horsehair hood back. Hestillion’s first instinct was to gasp, to look away, but she swallowed it down.
The woman must have been nearly a hundred years old, unspeakably ancient for a human. Her skin was as thin as a dried leaf and looked just as fragile, peppered all over with dark brownish age spots. This was not what had alarmed Hestillion though; at some point in the past, the old woman had been very badly burned. The skin on her face and neck was a raw, shiny pink, the flesh melted and twisted beyond all recognition. Her right eye was gone, a slippery pucker of scar tissue in its place, and her hair was reduced to a few scanty white braids on the left side of her head. Her mouth was little more than a slit, and the eye that was left was a deep dark brown. It fixed Hestillion with a piercing gaze.
‘I am Mother Fast, girl. I had a dream, and I’ve come to lend my aid to Ebora.’
13